


stay

by TheEagleGirl



Series: pride before the fall [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged up characters, Angst, M/M, asoiafrarepairs week, basically a lot of angst, canon events happen but they still suck, god i really like making jon snow suffer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 11:53:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15048371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: Jon looks at him then, eyes burning bright. His hair’s stuck to his forehead, and his breath comes too quickly. Gods, he’s beautiful like this. Theon could look at him forever.~~Theon asks Jon to stay.





	stay

**Author's Note:**

> GAH why do I do this to myself? 
> 
> Written for the day two prompt from asoiafrarepairs on tumblr: "Tell me when you're sober."

Theon finds Jon outside the armory, hacking away at a practice dummy. 

“Done pouting yet?” He calls, trying to sound flippant over the clang of metal, but his heart thuds painfully in his chest.  

“No,” Jon replies, not even turning. 

Theon watches him. Jon’s body seems to vibrate with energy and at first--but only for a moment--Theon mistakenly thinks it’s anger. Anger, he’s comfortable with. Anger, Theon knows how to handle, how to coax out of Jon with a kiss, a hand through his hair. In a way, Theon wishes Jon were just angry.

But he’s not. Jon is  _ focused _ . It’s not anger Theon sees. It’s determination. Theon’s never been able to change Jon’s mind when he’s made it up so resolutely. Still, he tries.

“You can’t go to the Wall,” he says. “You’ll freeze your balls off. No women up there, you know.”

Jon scoffs, and hits the dummy again. “Because I’ve shown such an interest in the women here in Winterfell,” he counters, sarcasm bitter on his tongue. 

Theon swallows his reply, which had been soft and hurt. Says instead, mockingly, “You’re right, Snow, going to the Wall is the only cure for your repulsiveness, really.”

Jon stops swinging the sword, and from this angle, Theon can see the tick in his jaw. “If you’re going to be this way,” Jon says tightly, “I’d rather not have this conversation.”

“What way?” Theon shoots back, crossing his arms.  _ Gods _ , it’s cold out here. When Theon followed him out, he thought he’d sling an arm around Jon, pull him back inside to the feast. Kiss him silly later. Change his mind, somehow. But instead he can feel the space widening between them, can feel anger bubbling up his throat. “You’re going there to escape your problems, Snow. I didn’t take you for that sort of fool.”

Jon looks at him then, eyes burning bright. His hair’s stuck to his forehead, and his breath comes too quickly. Gods, he’s beautiful like this. Theon could look at him forever.

“I could never stay here,” Jon tells him, and Theon knows it to be true. Lady Catelyn might not have been able to force him out without Lord Stark’s consent, but she had a way of making the very air around her frigid when Jon was around. “And a bastard can rise high in the Watch.”

Theon huffs. “And die unhappy.”

Jon swallows. “Thank you, Greyjoy,” he says, hurt--and Theon aches to reach out, convince him to stay. “I knew you’d understand.”

He doesn’t, though. He just watches Jon put the sword back on its rack, carefully. Jon is always careful, after all, except when he explodes. 

Theon wishes he’d shout. He wants to, himself. But it’s only a moment before Jon is gone, and Theon is left with empty air and cold in his bones.

  
  
  
  


“Let me  _ in _ ,” Theon whines, not exactly quiet. The bolt is lifted and door thrown open in a handful of moments, Theon yanked inside. He knew he’d be. Jon is careful, more careful than him, and knows what attention Theon’s noisiness brings. 

“Are you absolutely  _ mad _ ?” Jon hisses, shoving Theon. It’s not a rough shove at all, but Theon is drunk and unsteady, and his feet trip over nothing, propelling his shoulder into the wall. Theon groans, and Jon swears softly under his breath. 

“Gods, Greyjoy,” Jon whispers, and his hand is on Theon’s shoulder in an instant. “You’re drunk.”

“I had to,” Theon slurs. He’s only had one skin of wine, but he’s leaning into his drunkenness. He knows Jon will forgive him more easily if he’s affectionate, the way wine tends to make him. “I missed you.”

Jon looks incredulous. “We saw each other all day,” he reminds him. “And at the feast tonight.”

Theon reaches out, cups Jon’s face. Gods, those grey eyes. He’d do anything for those eyes.

“We’re fighting, though, aren’t we?” Theon tugs Jon closer to him by his tunic, til Jon has to steady himself against the wall. “And I missed you.”

It’s strange, how simple missing Jon is. Jon is still  _ here _ , Theon can’t imagine what it’ll be like when he’s gone _.  _

Jon makes a choked noise when Theon pulls him close, places a filthy, opened-mouth kiss on his throat. 

“ _ Greyjoy _ ,” Jon murmurs, hisses when Theon scrapes his teeth against Jon’s clavicle. He almost expects Jon to move away, to push Theon from his room, but Jon must have missed him too. He stays put, places a hand in Theon’s hair, tugs his face up for a kiss.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” Jon gasps, when they pull away. “One minute you hate me and the next you come here and tell me you  _ miss _ me, of all things.”

Theon lifts his hips, grinds them slowly against Jon’s, if only to see him fight to control his face. “I’ve come to show you all the reasons you should stay,” Theon tells him, wrapping his arms around Jon’s shoulders. Jon huffs a protest, but Theon turns it into a moan when he lifts his leg between Jon’s. 

“I won’t,” Jon promises. Theon shuts him up with lips on lips, the only way he knows how. 

The bed seems too far away, but the wall is  _ cold _ , and Theon makes the hard choice to untangle himself from Jon long enough to guide him to the bed. Jon falls back under Theon’s gentle shove, struggles to help him take off his trousers. Theon takes his time, kissing Jon’s thighs, sucking a mark on his hip bone, before taking Jon into his mouth.

Jon bucks up with a whispered, “ _ Gods _ ,” and tangles his hands in Theon’s hair. It’s almost painful, the way he tugs at it, but Theon welcomes it.  _ Stay, _ he tries to tell Jon with his eyes.  _ Stay, stay, stay. _

Jon’s eyes are closed. 

He’s so close when Theon pulls away, and gives a soft cry at the loss. “I’m not--” he starts, bewildered, eyes wide. Theon hauls himself up to kiss the confusion off his face, slow and dirty and gentle as he can. He sees understanding dawn when he pushes fumbles around for his pile of discarded clothes, finds the little bottle of oil. Jon gives Theon a last kiss before turning, urging him to  _ finish _ , already.

Theon prepares Jon as gently as he can, but Jon is impatient tonight, so it’s too fast when he slicks himself up and pushes himself in, slowly. Under him, Jon’s got his face buried in the pillow, a low groan Theon can  _ feel _ making it’s way through him. 

“Gods, Jon,” Theon says, and he feels like he’s babbling, sputtering nonsense that will embarrass him in the morning, “you’re so beautiful like this. I never want to fight, let’s never--let’s never fight again.” 

Jon laughs, breathless. His hands find Theon’s, link their fingers, and then pull Theon down so they’re closer Theon’s chest against his back. The angle is harder to reach, here, but the closeness is worth it. Theon disentangles his right hand from Jon’s, reaches forward to wrap himself around the base of Jon’s shaft, move in disjointed strokes. 

“Don’t go,” Theon begs, his voice hitching. He feels Jon arch with surprise under him. “Please don’t go, Jon, I love you and I can’t--” 

He is coming hard before he finishes his sentence, and after a few more strokes of his hand, Jon is too. Theon collapses against Jon’s back, breathing raggedly. 

He can hear Jon’s heartbeat, under his ear. It’s thumping away quickly, too quickly. The air feels fragile around them, in a way it’s  _ never _ been. Theon can’t breathe.

Jon rolls away. 

“Jon, I--” Theon tries, but Jon just shakes his head, sharply. Theon watches as he stands, cleans himself up. He can’t move. His tongue feels thick, and it takes effort to swallow. 

Warily, Jon comes back to the bed, lays down on his side facing Theon. 

“I love you,” Theon tells him. He didn’t know it til now, but it’s true. He can feel it, fit to burst against his chest.

“Stop,” Jon says softly. “Please.”

“It’s true,” Theon insists, just as soft, just as quiet. “I love you.”

“Theon,” Jon says, his voice hardening. “You’re drunk.”

Theon feels it, on the edge of his awareness. He’s not drunk the way Jon thinks, but he’s comfortably loose. Enough to say, “I’m not. I love you.”

“Yeah?” Jon challenges, propping himself up on an elbow. He looks angry. “Then tell me this tomorrow. Tell me when you’re sober.”

“I will,” Theon insists. He reaches out, and Jon wavers, before shaking his head. “Jon…”

“You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.” Jon stands, pulls on his trousers and tunic haphazardly. “You don’t.” 

When he leaves, Theon makes no move to follow.

  
  
  


He doesn’t tell him when he’s sober. In the light of day, Theon stays as far away from Jon as he can, rejection curling on his tongue. And when Jon leaves--four days later, bound for the wall--Theon is getting blind drunk in Winter Town.

He doesn’t need him. Theon’s just fine on his own.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this fic, please leave a comment/review!


End file.
